


The Hunter's Embrace

by Hancockles



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Dubious Consent, Enemy Lovers, Fight Sex, Gen, Hate Sex, Name-Calling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hancockles/pseuds/Hancockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hunter and Alfred, locked in deadly combat -- how ever will this turn out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hunter's Embrace

"This is called the Blade of Mercy,” the Hunter says, their body pressed against Alfred. They have him pinned to the wall, but only just barely; his bulk threatens to overtake them. They press the tip of their blade against his cheek, by way of intimidation. “It’s a very ironic name.”

They smile. Surprisingly, Alfred smiles back. Two hunters on the offensive; waiting.

Alfred’s got a trick up his sleeve as well: raw strength. He wrenches his arm from the Hunter’s grasp and uses it to lever himself off the wall, pushing the Hunter back. They stumble, losing their grip on him and cursing; they shift easily, like reeds in a current. But they still have their wits about them, and they jab forward with their blade as Alfred turns. He moves quickly, and the blade glances by him, cutting a thin line through his garb. He is bleeding, though it is barely a trickle.

He is weaponless, but he needs not a weapon, and he knows this; throwing his whole weight into the Hunter, he brings them down onto the cobblestones with as much ease as a beast capturing its prey. The Hunter struggles, kicking, striking out with their blade, biting into Alfred’s shoulder, digging their free hand’s fingers into his back. But the truth of the matter is that they are far too weak, and they are easily outmatched by him. They turn their blade around in their hand, meaning to drive it into his back, but Alfred has formed a fist and thumped them soundly in the ribs. They drop their blade to the ground with a clatter, gasping.

Alfred digs the heel of his palm into their shoulder, grinding down on a bullet wound he knows is there. He saw them get shot there, before -- back when they worked together. The Hunter cries out, asks why. Alfred almost answers: the betrayal in your eyes is much sweeter when you’re in pain.

Their hands are wrapped around him, pulling at his garb, trying to find a hold or perhaps trying to find a way to choke him. But his size and heat are a heavy weight on them, on their legs. They’re losing feeling in their limbs quite quickly, and their shoulder aches with the memory of a previous injury. They don’t know why they’re so afraid and so desperate. They know what happens when they die. Why is it like this, with him?

“Alfred,” they croak, feebly pushing on his bicep with their hand. “You fat bastard.”

“You were quite saucy before,” Alfred replies. He has not quite set his whole weight on them. He’s thinking about it. “What happened?”

The Hunter tries to pull themselves out from under him, thinking they might be slight enough to manage it. No good. “Fat fuck!”

Alfred grabs their chin and wrenches their head to the side. Their neck gives a sickening pop. “I know you have more valuable things to say,” he says. He lowers his face to their ear, breathing a hot breath on the shell of it. The Hunter jerks once, then again; Alfred holds them steady. He kisses their earlobe, then draws it into his mouth and worries it between his teeth. He is gentle, now; the Hunter’s hands fly up and grip his arms, trying to budge him one way or another. They groan.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” they say, their breath ragged. Alfred can see a thin line of drool leaking from their mouth to the ground. Their body has become warm beneath him.

“That’s a shame,” Alfred says. “I was hoping to strangle you first.”

He moves their head again, and finds it easier than last time. At last, they begin to cooperate. Alfred presses a kiss to their lips with a surprising tenderness. The Hunter moves their head forward, as if to reciprocate, then remembers themselves. They kick a leg out, then scream.

Alfred, keeping his left hand on their throat, shifts his weight; his right arm goes to their chest, pinning them more solidly to the ground. He sets his knee on their leg. They curse and tear at him like an animal for a few moments longer. Alfred’s sweat drips from his forehead onto the dirty mess of their clothing. He’s the one who made a mess of it. The thought spurs something dark within him.

He leans down and kisses the Hunter again, this time their neck. They allow his kiss; he feels their pulse hammering in their neck. He kisses harder and, experimentally, sets his teeth against their flesh. The Hunter whines. They grip his arms, pulling the fabric of his arms into their fists. When he looks up and sees they have their eyes screwed shut, he snorts. They’re afraid of him! A fearsome hunter like them!

He removes his hand from their throat. The Hunter relaxes the barest amount, and eyes him.

“You great, big fucker,” they whisper hoarsely. “I’ll have your head.”

“Please do try, you awful little cunt,” he says. He leans over them, pressing their chests together, and grab’s the Hunter’s knife from the ground. Thankfully it was within his reach and not theirs, he thinks. In an unnecessary display of showmanship he twirls the blade between his fingers -- is that a gleam of interest in the Hunter’s angry eyes? -- then brings it down to their shirt. He slices vertically, blade ghosting over tender white skin, then rips the rest of the cloth away. He holds the knife to their cheek, nicking it. A spot of blood wells.

“Try anything and I’ll slice your throat right here.”

Again he shifts his impressive bulk, straddling the Hunter. For now, they are free of any manhandling on their top half. Alfred holds the knife to their cheek as he uses his other hand to brush against their chest. He runs a thumb over a nipple; it stiffens.

“Oh? Does this excite you?” he asks. He presses the cool side of the blade to the Hunter’s cheek; sweat had begun beading on their forehead. He leans down, licks their exposed nipple. They moan. “Say it.”

They bite their lip. Alfred jabs the point of the blade to their cheek, careful not to break the skin quite yet. They shudder.

“I like it,” they admit, drawing in a deep breath. On the exhale, they say, “but I still hate your fucking guts.”

They inhale again and, with perfect aim, spit into Alfred’s face.

Alfred growls and sits up, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. When he looks down, the Hunter has propped themselves up on their elbows and is eyeing them smugly. Their lips quirk up at one side; half a smile. It makes Alfred as angry as it makes him aroused. He sets a hand on their chest and pushes them back down harshly; they grunt on impact, and groan. He jabs the knife to their sternum, says, “don’t try me, lamb,” and slices a neat line across their skin.

They hiss, bringing a hand to the wound; it is a superficial one, but the blood comes steadily. No doubt they feel a sting.

The Hunter’s pained expression sends Alfred into something of a frenzy -- he tosses the knife far away and before it has even landed he has both his hands on the Hunter, his fingers threaded through their hair, his lips upon theirs. The more Alfred gives the more readily they receive, until they break from each other and their mouths are red and moist and swollen.

“You beast,” the Hunter whispers. They bring their hand to Alfred’s face, purposefully smearing their own blood across it. Alfred licks the fluid from the corner of his mouth, almost gratefully.

What has been building up in him reaches its peak, and he groans. He moves himself further down the Hunter, still pinning their legs with his weight but not sitting heavily enough to damage them, and sets about undoing their pants. They don’t struggle; they hasten the process by stripping their shirt off, and his. 

When Alfred takes his cock out of his pants, the Hunter brushes their finger along the tip, then reach down and grab his balls, hard. Alfred throws his head back and moans. They twist slightly, left and right, gauging his reaction; he likes it rough, and the Hunter is on the precipice of going too far.

He sort of wishes they would.

Alfred leans forward, setting his hands on either side of the Hunter, on the cobblestones. The Hunter removes their hand and brings both to Alfred’s chest, palming his soft pecs, his stomach. They initiate a kiss this time, tipping their head back and expecting him to reply in kind, which he does, almost immediately. 

Driven by the Hunter’s enthusiasm, he bites their lip, draws blood, and licks it up with his tongue. It’s unlike any blood he’s ever had; it satisfies something deep within him. His cock twitches, and he lifts his hips up, moves to position himself at the Hunter’s entrance--

The Hunter slaps him squarely across the cheek.

“We’ll do it my way, you brute,” the Hunter says; their tone suggests no hint of kindness or affection. They push him back, and he obliges, so awed is he by the force of their strike.

The Hunter is on top now, straddling Alfred’s hips. They know they won’t be able to keep him down if he truly wishes to upend them, but they also know that, like any other horny, rutting hunter, he won’t be going anywhere.

They bring his cock to attention with one long stroke of their hand, and maneuver it into themselves. They groan as he stretches and fills them; the stink of blood and precum makes them open wider, like a filthy blossom, and soon he’s buried in them to the hilt.

Alfred grips their hips, coaxing them up and back down in a steady rhythm. He’s eyeing them with a desperate kind of lust; he needs this. The Hunter picks up the pace, sweat beading onto him. Both their skin is slick with it. And with blood.

They won’t kiss him again. It’s something he enjoys, and wants -- they know that, and wish to deny him.

Alfred comes with a charmingly high-pitched whine. His spine arches off the hard ground; he digs his fingers deeper into the flesh of the Hunter’s hips.

“That was quick,” they mutter, and are pleased to see Alfred flush a deep red. His senses are coming back to him. The look of hatred in his eyes is beginning to rekindle itself.

The Hunter works quickly, pressing a hand to Alfred’s throat -- my turn now! They think meanly -- and they work themselves to completion on top of Alfred’s sweating body.

“You horrid little thing,” Alfred says, moving to grab them, but they are already up and clothed at the waist. They slip their shirt on, and pick up their blade.

Alfred, unarmed, stays where he is. The Hunter presses a dirty boot to his chest.

“I will kill you next time,” says the Hunter. “You weren’t a good enough fuck to keep around.”

They throw their hood up and turn, quickly striding into the blackness of the night. Alfred heaves a weary sigh.


End file.
